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“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."
- James Baldwin
It’s a sweltering summer night, the heat so thick it stills the world by day and now sweetens the dusk. The people of New Orleans take to the streets once more. Humanity blossoms in all its sweat and lust, voices resound up into the townhouse at Rue Royal and draw Louis out onto the balcony. He’d stirred to consciousness but an hour prior in Lestat’s tight embrace. Had they been human, the heat would’ve been unbearable, but their undead flesh is always cold at wakening. Lestat had kissed him then and Louis had kissed him back, eager in the dark, secure in the knowledge that Claudia was still asleep in her room. Strange how fear had turned to comfort in his coffin, how with Lestat death can feel vibrant and safe and good, though he rarely allows himself to admit it. How hungry Lestat’s mouth had been for him, even now the memory rouses Louis’ flesh and he has to breathe in deeply to chase the thoughts away. New Orleans’s air is heavy with moisture, and tension weaves through it as a harbinger of storm. Louis has always loved the lightning. When will the skies break to douse the city and for a moment wash away all filth, nourishing the verdant trees and bushes and the bayou? His chest heaves with the need of it. His fingers curl around the parapet, and he leans over to watch the people whose voices echo so loudly in his head, both spoken and unspoken. What is it about this city that fans desire? Louis has felt it ever since he was a young boy, trying not to look at other boys. No more of that. These years he looks at Lestat often and long, allowing himself to desire again. Now that Claudia is with them, much of their fights have calmed, overshadowed by the budding love of their…
Family.
Joy swells in Louis’ chest and almost fills him to the brim. He’d never thought or even hoped to experience such love. How Claudia’s every gesture sparks care in him, and her laughter brightens his nights, and next to her Lestat who calls Claudia milkweed and missy and a hundred French endearments, and is teaching Claudia how to drive and buys her dresses and makes sure her skirts are not too short, who, though being called uncle, loves Claudia as a daughter. Louis knows it in the vehemence with which Lestat spends his money on her every wish and the glint in Lestat’s eyes upon seeing her elation. The moments when it is them at the theatre or at the movies, laughing in the back row while the audience glowers at them, are among the happiest Louis has ever felt. Now both Lestat and Claudia are out hunting and the hunger—it sears through Louis too. Ever since Claudia he…has given in more often. And he will give in again tonight. A necessity. A precaution so the hunger will never drive him to do what he’s done to the alderman. The rage and flame are too close yet in his memories. He must never lose control like that again.
Louis finds himself in a crowded drinking locale, full of smoke and sweat and raucous laughter of drunk men, and elegant as Lestat calls him, Louis moves through these men until at last he sees one who, hurling insults at Louis, in his dirty dress-shirt and reddish cheeks, spills of life that to take, oh god, will be a pleasure, though he does not call it that. It’s a quick affair that yet takes a little longer than it would have needed when Louis loses himself in the rapture of the man’s heartbeat, the syrupy sweet blood and the heat of the man’s flesh cooling against him, the life that he greedily draws into his mouth. Pictures of an unhappy childhood, beating father, crying mother; a hard job that brings no pleasure, the only pleasure is drink and to take from women what he can pay for, and then in their arms for a moment, the man can cry and love. Louis sucks him dry of blood. Waits for his heartbeat to slow.
Later, Louis makes sure to dispose of the corpse unseen in a neighbourhood where death is a common guest, uncared for by its hosts. Yet when Louis beds the man down into the dirt, he does it softly, closing his eyes.
Louis will not think of it, he tells himself. Cannot confront what he otherwise denies: that he has brought death and enjoyed it. To hold the man’s heartbeat between his teeth, to drink his life and memories and also, to have power over him, to love him in his last moment.
The intoxicated blood sways Louis’ steps home, and he has to catch himself against a wall as he staggers through the street. The world rushes about him, he turns to lean his back against the wall, strangers passing him by, and he is warm with the blood, his skin no longer an ashy brown but radiant and aglow in its richness. His every nerve is humming with life and he wishes… he wishes Lestat were here, not to taunt him for his kill, but to be warm against him, with his sweet hot mouth and his tongue pushing between Louis’ lips. He wants to be underneath him. Louis’ skin aches for touch and yet he does not know when Lestat will return home. No matter. He will be back soon enough, and perhaps early enough so that Claudia, who these nights enjoys staying up till the stars pale, will yet be out, and Lestat and he might have some time together…
The townhouse is empty when Louis returns, but the lights shimmer warmly on their furniture and it is almost as though Louis can hear Lestat shouting after Claudia whose laughter trumps all other sound. He thinks of a week ago when Lestat had already been out, and they had been alone together in Claudia’s room. She’d been trying on dresses and spinning in them in front of Louis, no more just a child, but growing into a woman. At least her mind. Worry nestles deep in Louis’s gut, but he pushes it aside. It is alright. It will be alright. They are happy after all. And in their cheer Claudia had thrown dresses on the floor and faux bed, on which Louis had hunched, too big for the bed’s small frame. They had chatted about fashion then, the newest trends that Lestat of course made sure to acquire for them.
“The old man is playing at being modern,” Claudia had jeered but with open affection in her voice and Louis had laughed, helping her reach for a rouge box. None of that powder the white women put on their skin to suffocate sweat. The shades do not exist for their kind, Claudia tells it as though it means nothing, but he knows her and the anger she harbours, the same he too carries with him and always will. It chains them together as much as hearing each other’s thoughts, a same-ness that needs no explanation or long discussion in which pain and rage must be subdued to calmly explain a concept to unwilling ears. Louis breathes in deeply. He goes out little into society these nights, and when he does, it is with Claudia and Lestat, one of who will always know his struggle. And yet the rouge had looked lovely on Claudia, deep enough to give her cheeks a rose-kiss colour, and before he’d been able to tear his gaze from her or the pride he felt, she’d swatted the rouge onto Louis’ own cheeks.
“What are you doing?” he’d choked out. Ice had sunk in his stomach but her smile and joy allowed him to breathe.
“You look pretty, Daddy Lou. Here, try this!” And she’d carefully stroked some tinted lip-colour onto his mouth. A strange feeling had taken hold of him, simply—letting go. No-one was here to see him but the eyes of his daughter.
Later he could not put into words what it felt like to look at himself with the rouge and lip-colour, that after Claudia disappeared into the nightly streets, he’d wiped his face roughly clean, thinking of his mother’s condemning, of every man and woman on the street and what they would think of him and call him, and see in him— And yet. He’d felt…
When he’d been perhaps six or seven, he and Grace had played with Grace’s dolls, crafting stories and adventures, delighting in the frilly satin doll-dresses. Suddenly the door had opened, too quick to hide, and his mamaw had come in, eyes wide, face rushing reddish with anger. Wordlessly, she had captured his hand in hers, her bony fingers crushing his smaller ones. Grace had protested then, but mamaw did not harken. Outside on the hallway mamaw made him swear to never touch a doll again, he had to be a man and at seven he was old enough to know what that meant. To be strong, tough and unrelenting and to keep quiet and to stop goddamn crying, Louis.
Louis stands still in the front parlour. Wills the thoughts away and once more concentrate on the warmth of his flesh as it is. How long will the flush last this time? Long enough until Lestat gets home? Perhaps. The echo of his mother’s voice haunts him into safer chambers until he finds himself entering the coffin room. He lights a candle, just a small flame. It comforts him in gentler ways than the too-bright electrical lights that reveal too much with too little care. Lestat would laugh at him for it, surely. Louis turns around and the light glints on something that hangs half-hidden on Lestat’s dresser. Forest-green silk, not unlike Louis’s eyes but darker, shimmers on a velvet hanger. And there the glint of pearl. What is it? The air seems to grow thicker, Louis is more aware of the moisture again, he must have left a window open somewhere. Yes. There it is. The rumble of thunder. No rain patters on the street, there must be lightning, but right now, in here, it is only Louis, the candle and the secret.
He walks slowly towards the silk, breath faltering as he recognises the shape of a—dress.
For a moment Louis does not comprehend. He stares. The garment is too long to be for Claudia, and it’s in Lestat’s dresser, it hangs among his other clothes, it is no gift, not wrapped for anyone. And casually slung over the hanger, a pearl necklace lends its gleam to the silk. It is too long as well to be fit for Claudia. No. Louis swallows, feeling the intoxicated blood rush through his veins louder than thunderclap.
He reaches out.
The dress is cold silk. Luxurious. Simple slim straps and an elegant cut that curves in at the waist, and on the side a slit that parts the cloth from the thigh down. No more than that. And it is…big enough to fit a tall woman.
Or a man.
Louis’ hands tremble on the silk. The moment with Claudia comes back to him and the cloth under his fingers feels old and familiar and beautiful in a way he has not allowed himself in decades. Not last he had (once, only once) touched Miss Lily’s dress. A shaky exhale. He blows out the candle. He’s alone in the dark.
Every movement feels like sacrilege as Louis unfastens his tie, opens buttons, lets cloth fall and pool by his feet. Time stills as he steps out of his clothes, half-mad with fear and drunken exhilaration. No thought allowed as he slowly slips the dress from its hanger. Opens its clasp at the back. Steps into it.
His undead heart beats in his chest like a war drum. Silk glides over his skin, cold like a caress. How can sin feel so soft? His breath echoes loudly in the dark. Then he takes the necklace, feels the smooth cool pearls under his fingertips, laces it around his neck. A shiver runs down his spine, then he glides his hands over his ribcage to his waist, to his pelvis. It feels…
Light tears the room from its secrecy. It’s so violent that Louis stumbles back, freezes.
Lestat stands by the door.
Shock crashes through Louis with such force he thinks he will vomit. He feels the blood drain from his face as he looks at Lestat who stares right back at him, cigarette falling from his hand to the floor.
For a terrible moment that’s all there is.
“Louis…”
Lestat’s voice rives Louis from shock into panic. But before he can tear the dress from his body, Lestat is by his side, fingers clasping his wrists.
“Louis!”
But there is no disgust on Lestat’s face. No sentence or insult, only wonder.
“Louis,” Lestat says softly and fixes him with his gaze. A smile spreads Lestat’s lips, slow and pleased and marvelling. Louis does not comprehend a thing.
“I…” Louis stammers, trying to put words together, failing.
“Mon cher, that is mine.” Awe. Then Lestat’s mouth is on his and Louis can’t help but open his lips. A hot wet tongue pushes into Louis’ mouth and he greets it with his own, pushing against Lestat’s tongue on instinct, and fear mixes with something scorching his insides. Lestat’s hands on him, on the dress, the pearls, crowding Louis against the dresser.
“This was for me,” Lestat mumbles in his soft French accent between kisses against Louis’ neck. A whole other heat licks up Louis’ flesh. For Lestat? Of course it was for him, it’s his dresser— Does that mean Lestat would wear it? A hundred questions assail Louis.
“Do you like it?” Lestat whispers. “Does it feel good on your skin? Your beautiful skin.”
“Yes,” Louis admits, still breathless, feels Lestat’s knee press between his thighs and loses any last coherent thought. Lestat is all around him, his scent wafting through the air, the lure of jasmine, dark orchids, the sweet of sandalwood. Even in the twilight and backlit Lestat is radiant, as angelic as the devil with his blond curls and shining eyes. And that infernal smile! Beneath Lestat’s kindled stare, a power begins to bloom in Louis. His shaking does not stop but it is no longer only shock. A moan escapes him when Lestat begins to move his leg between Louis’. A hand glides over where the dress-slit exposes Louis’ thigh.
“Oh God,” Louis gasps. He kisses Lestat desperately, grabbing at his suit to pull him closer. He can feel Lestat’s hands slowly lift the dress.
“Wait,” Louis says. Can’t believe the words shaping on his lips. “Don’t you wanna…” Lestat is listening with razor-sharp attention, pupils blown black. “Don’t you wanna look at me?”
The expression on Lestat’s face is near ecstasy. With a deep breath Lestat takes a step back, and his gaze burns Louis to the spot where he leans against the dresser, feeling already ravaged, exposed, blood singing in his veins.
With predatory grace Lestat moves closer again, bends to graze his lips against Louis' jaw, neck and ear.
“My Louis. Mon brillant Louis.”
Lestat’s voice never fails to make Louis weak at the knees. With trembling hands Louis slips the pearls from his neck, gaze never leaving Lestat’s, as he hangs the pearls around Lestat’s neck. Louis can both see and hear Lestat hold his breath. Slowly, Louis pulls Lestat closer with the necklace, drawing him in. A shivering exhale between them, eyes burning into one another. To chain Lestat to himself with pearls, how else would it be?
“Louis…” Lestat’s pupils are blown black with what Louis knows is want. Perhaps more than want. Louis pushes against Lestat who welcomes it as he always does. Then their mouths crash together and for a moment they kiss roughly, blood mixing into their kiss, delicious and hot like life, until Lestat tears himself away and Louis sinks back against the dresser, watching Lestat lick his lips, eyes never leaving Louis’. Then, slowly and as much a performance as everything he does, Lestat sinks to his knees in front of Louis.
“I want to ruin you,” Lestat whispers, pearls glinting on his neck.
Want almost blinds Louis.
“Already have,” Louis says.
The corners of Lestat’s mouth lift in a smile that bares his teeth.
“We will see.”
His hand finds Louis’ knee in the dress-slit, caressing his skin, moving upwards.
“You will ruin me in turn,” Lestat purrs. “Ruin my mouth. And my face.”
Images of white steaks coating Lestat’s cheeks sear through Louis, making himself leak those pearlescent beads of fluid.
“Are you getting excited, Louis?”
Lestat’s breath tickles his skin and goosebumps shiver up Loui’s arms and legs. Then Lestat grazes Louis’ thigh with his lips, drags his open mouth over the skin and upwards, just a hint of teeth and tongue. Heat pulses through Louis, coils in his stomach and lower, lower, where Lestat’s hands now push underneath the silk. But he does not touch him there, not yet. It’s Lestat’s way to tease him into action, to name his desires—
“Please,” Louis moans, voice rough.
“Please what?” Lestat asks innocently, looking up at him, devil that he is.
“Want you,” Louis gasps, “Want you to suck me off.”
Lestat’s eyes shine with fervour.
“Whenever you wish, mon cher,” Lestat pledges, “Anywhere.” The thought makes Louis dizzy, leaving him with images of Lestat on his knees in places they shouldn’t, can’t. “My mouth is at your disposal,” Lestat continues, his French accent getting heavier. “You can fuck it whenever you please. I’m always hungry for you, Louis.”
Kisses trail up Louis’ thigh and Louis pushes his hand into Lestat’s hair just a moment before teeth sink into his skin, not drawing blood, but by god he wants it. Louis grips Lestat’s hair hard enough to make Lestat inhale sharply, then Lestat pushes up the dress to look at Louis’ hard cock. The air is heavy with their arousal and Louis can barely take the wait until Lestat finally drags his tongue over Louis’ length. A groan breaks from his mouth and he pulls Lestat closer. Lips close around his cock. Wet heat engulfs him and then Lestat sucks. Pleasure rushes through Louis. A curse leaves him and his hips buck forward and Lestat takes it as though he were made for it. Lestat’s pretty plump lips stretch around Louis’ cock. The sight alone could make Louis come (often enough has) and the tight heat of Lestat’s throat welcomes him as he thrusts forward. A choking noise escapes Lestat but he does not retreat, instead Louis watches him skid closer, ruining the knees on his suit trousers no doubt, and Louis cannot but stare at him, unbelieving he has him like that, can have him any time. With the blood fresh in his veins, lust holds sway. Lestat looks up at him, eyes ghosted with a hint of blood-tears as he swallows around Louis’ cock.
“You’re so damn good at this,” Louis moans and fucks into Lestat’s mouth harder, almost comes right then and there when he realises Lestat has one hand shoved into his own trousers. The urge to push Lestat back, open his trousers and sink himself onto Lestat’s length almost weighs out the pleasure of taking Lestat’s mouth. How would he look on top of Lestat like this, in this dress? Would Lestat call him pretty? Louis moans, more wantonly than he would’ve liked, head falling back and exposing his throat. Lestat’s free hand tightens at Louis’ hip, and Lestat slips off his cock.
“Don’t stop—” Louis breathes, but Lestat’s already on his feet and then his mouth finds Louis’ neck, hot and wet with spit. Teeth sink into him, and Louis spreads his legs wider to accommodate Lestat between them. The feeling of Lestat’s fangs barely piercing his skin while he can also feel Lestat’s clothed dick slide against his own is almost too much.
“I wanna come,” he begs before he can think twice. “Lestat, I—”
A hand on the back of Louis’ knee, pushing his leg around Lestat’s hip. Lestat kisses his neck open-mouthed, sucks, bites, trembling breath.
“Louis,” his name like a prayer on Lestat’s bloody lips. “Louis…”
Another hand wanders the low neckline of his dress, slipping under it, grazing Louis’ sparse chest hair and then his left nipple. The touch is so soft, Louis keens, his hands finding Lestat’s belt, and hastily freeing Lestat’s cock from its confines. Once more lips find Louis’ own and they kiss haphazardly, helplessly, undone by each other. Louis thinks he might kiss Lestat for eternity. He wants to be his. Wants to be his —
They break the kiss, both breathing heavily, and when Louis looks at Lestat’s eyes they are almost black, pupils wide. Lestat’s hair is tousled by Louis’ hands in it, clothes dishevelled, lips kissed red.
“I want you.” Lestat says it as though it’s painful, as though he’d perish if he can’t have Louis.
Louis yanks him closer by the pearl necklace, leg trembling where it’s still hooked around Lestat’s hip.
“Have me,” he says. And as Lestat’s fingers make to breach him, carefully as he always does, Louis shakes his head, mad with the hunger to feel Lestat inside. “Don’t need it.”
Heavy breaths. Lestat shoves closer, pushes two fingers into Louis’ mouth, who sucks on them while bucking his hips against Lestat. Louis makes sure to coat them with spit, but cannot help but suck the fingers deeper, and Lestat moans and presses against him.
“Stop, mon cher….” Lestat shudders, “Stop or I will spill right now.”
Louis lets Lestat’s fingers slip from his lips, watches how Lestat coats his own cock with Louis’ spit before he drags Louis closer, canting up Louis’ hips to slot against him. The feeling of Lestat’s hard, slicked-up cock against his ass makes Louis moan, wrapping his arms around Lestat’s shoulders, desperately clawing him close.
“I’m yours,” Louis breathes against Lestat’s mouth.
Lestat pushes inside. Slowly, his hard length enters Louis, its size taking the air from Louis’ lungs, it hurts but it feels good, feels so goddamn good.
“I love you,” Lestat whispers.
Louis can only groan, head fallen against the dresser, eyes rolling back as his body takes Lestat inside.
For a moment they stay still, each accustoming to the storm of sensation. The silk cools Louis’ heated skin, it feels luxurious, and to be— to wear— a dress , while Lestat fucks him, to be coveted this way— in Lestat’s dress—
Louis pushes back against Lestat whose mouth trembles against his own. They kiss, sloppy and desperate as Lestat thrusts into him, slow at first then harder. To be filled by Lestat, taken by him… Louis chokes on air, allows himself to be loud and humiliate himself with the enormity of his desire. A strange freedom in it, one he’s only ever found with Lestat. Words leave him before he can think better of it:
“I wanna be your pet.”
Lestat whimpers against Louis’ jaw, fucking into him faster.
“My pet?” The words are honey on Lestat’s lips.
Shame burns in Louis’ stomach but only heightens the bliss of Lestat’s cock finding that spot inside him, rubbing against it mercilessly. He moans as an answer, giving himself to Lestat. The hand on the back of Louis’ knee tightens, bruising his skin and he welcomes it, leaving his own marks on Lestat where he can grab at him and drag his nails over Lestat’s flesh. The pearls clink between them. They move together, pace quickening, Louis’ cock trapped between Lestat and the silk of his dress on his stomach, obscene to sully this cloth with his leaking lust. A hard thrust almost sends Louis over the edge, and he groans loudly, there’s only Lestat’s thick cock stretching him open, fucking into him slick with Louis’ own spit, he’s being taken and had and it feels so base and so, so good—
Lestat’s hand finds Louis’ cock, expertly gripping him exactly how he likes it.
“Mon amour,” Lestat breathes against his jaw before his teeth sink into Louis’ neck. Just a little drink. A little death. The bite always overwhelms him with feelings—feelings he has never voiced to Lestat that nonetheless scorch him from the inside out. To be so close to him, to be one with him, and— Louis moans loudly, nails cutting into Lestat’s shoulder, dragging him close enough to put his own mouth on Lestat’s neck in turn. He needs to have him, too, the closeness keeps him alive. He bites Lestat less carefully, overtaken by the feeling of blood leaving him, of Lestat drinking from him. He can feel and hear Lestat moan when he sucks the blood from Lestat’s vein, and for a moment they still their movement, only drink, only feel the magnitude of—
Love.
Louis almost says it. He wants to. A hard thrust brings him back into flesh. Louis pushes back against Lestat’s hips, mouth bloody, filled with the taste of him.
“So good,” he moans and Lestat kisses him, licking between his lips greedily and Louis sucks on Lestat’s tongue. Their movements stutter, erratic and out of rhythm, hard and deep. All Louis can do is hold onto Lestat, who clings to him and slides his hand up and down Louis’ cock faster and faster. Pleasure crests over Louis like a tidal wave. He loses himself in it. His whole body tightens as pleasure and white heat sear through him and he comes in Lestat’s hand. Not a heart-beat later he can feel Lestat spill inside him, hot and sticky and so obscene and so much— Louis whimpers, shuddering around Lestat, looks at him, and feels tears bead at his eyes. Then they are kissing, slow like wounded animals, so soft Louis can’t hold back the bloody tear running down his cheek.
“I love you,” Lestat whispers against Louis’ mouth, arms wrapping around Louis as he carefully slips out of him. “I love you.” I lo—”
Louis kisses him, cradling Lestat’s face with his hands. God, he wants to kiss him forever.
He can feel Lestat’s come leak out of him and with heat rushing into his cheeks, tries to gather the dress in his hand, so it won’t be sullied, at least not more than it already is.
Lestat giggles, reaches out to help, but stills because Louis’ come is coating his fingers.
“‘M sorry…” Louis mumbles, feeling himself blush more.
“For what?” Lestat asks, accentuating the consonants, an eyebrow arching, before he licks the come from his hand. The sight will never stop arousing Louis.
“You’re a devil,” Louis says.
Lestat grins, ever pleased by being called bad, he makes no secret of it. This accursed smile! Louis pulls him in for another kiss and he can taste his own spent on Lestat’s tongue and the depravity of it almost makes him hard again. Hands move over Louis’ body, caress him everywhere, lingering on his hip and then slip under the dress to his back and lower until Lestat slips a finger inside Louis, pushing out his own come.
“Turn around, mon cher,” Lestat whispers.
A shiver runs down Louis’ back, but he does as he’s told. Feels Lestat lift away the dress and then his mouth is on Louis, sucking his own come from Louis’ entrance.
“Oh god,” Louis groans, pushing his face against the dresser, fingers grabbing at the wood.
Lestat’s hands spread him open as he licks into him, taking his time, making obscene noises as he does. Louis can feel pleasure stir in him again, but outside the sky must be paling already, and Claudia will be home soon.
“Stop,” he begs, but Lestat doesn’t, instead pushes his tongue deeper inside. Louis keens, his cock hardening. An arm slides around him, taking his cock in hand and working it to full hardness with embarrassing ease.
“Lestat—”
Louis can’t help but arch his back, pressing himself closer to Lestat’s mouth who licks into him, tongue thrusting deliciously inside, hot and wet and sloppy. And what sight must he be, half-bent over for Lestat in his dress? Another groan falls from his lips as he pushes back into Lestat’s hand, and Lestat starts working his cock faster, stroking up and down in a perfect grip, tight and slick from the rest of Louis’ come. The desire to put his own mouth on Lestat overwhelms him, to kiss and suck and use his tongue the way Lestat is using his, to give him pleasure, to make him moan—
“Wanna suck you, eat you out, wanna feel you come on my tongue,” Louis rasps between groans. He can feel Lestat moan against him, stroking Louis’ cock faster. It’s too much. Louis can’t take it, arches back and whimpers and comes a second time. Bliss shivers through him hot as coals.
Hands turn Louis around until his back once more hits the dresser, then Lestat’s mouth engulfs Louis’ cock, sucking him clean. The sensation is so intense Louis mewls. Beneath him, Lestat looks absolutely ravaged, eyes wide and glazed, lips puffy and red and messy, oh god. Louis pushes him down and Lestat’s back hits the floor. The pearls slung around his neck clatter to the floor beside Lestat’s head. Louis is astride him the next second, dress splaying out to one side, the slit revealing his leg fully on the other. He bends low until his breath ghosts over Lestat’s lips, he grips the pearls in one fist to draw Lestat up.
“Fuck me again,” Louis murmurs, out of his mind. Lestat grabs his thighs, bucking up against him. “I’m so wet from your tongue,” Louis continues, “Still open from your cock.”
A whine escapes Lestat, brows creasing in mindless, desperate lust. One hand grabs Louis by the back of his neck, pulling him into a rough kiss. They push against each other, hands tearing at cloth, nails scratching over skin. Louis wrenches the pearls around to yank Lestat closer and with a snap the necklace breaks— Pearls scatter everywhere. Glint of them everywhere around them in the dark, like fallen celestial bodies. Lestat gasps into their kiss, looking as hungry as a saint for absolution and as ravaged. And Louis wants to give it to him. Lestat’s hand digs into Louis’ ass, and with a quick motion, Louis grabs Lestat’s cock and positions himself, delirious with their love. He sinks down on him slowly, hissing at the sensation and swallowing Lestat’s moan.
“Louis,” Lestat whines as Louis begins to ride him, “Louis. Louis—”
It feels so good to be on top of Lestat, the angle is so delicious, looking down at Lestat like this, at Louis’ mercy. The way Lestat keens and moans and whines out his pleasure is a fever Louis never wants to break. Blood-sweat gathers at Louis’ forehead and all over his skin. It sullies the dress, but Louis does not care now, only cares to feel Lestat inside, leaking already, thrusting up as much as Louis allows him, which is little, and how beautiful Lestat is. So utterly ruined. Louis licks over Lestat’s lips, and Lestat’s tongue meets his, but Louis draws to the side to whisper into Lestat’s ear.
“Feel so good inside me, cher, want you inside me all the time.”
“Louis, please,” Lestat begs, for what he is not certain.
Louis grins, shoves down on Lestat’s cock, his own dick hardening to fullness for a third time. Lestat’s fingers close around Louis’ cock. They rock together until they are both moaning, only sweat and limbs and the smell of blood weaving through the air alongside their lust. A curse falls from Louis mouth as Lestat’s cock drags against that spot inside him, and he angles himself so it happens again, and again until he is mewling and desperate and then Lestat is kissing him, hard and with teeth. Fever takes hold of him, the stretch of Lestat’s cock inside him is too much, is so good, and Lestat’s fingers and Lestat’s tongue that Louis is sucking into his own mouth and then he is coming so hard the world blackens around him. Lestat moans underneath him, and Louis can feel him come too, feels his hot wet release shoot inside.
They collapse together.
Heavy breathing echoes as they lie against each other, Lestat’s arms loosely wrapped around Louis. They kiss slowly, gently. Exhaustion and bliss weigh Louis down. Were he not sticky and filthy, he’d fall into his coffin with Lestat at once.
“I love you,” Lestat mumbles and Louis nestles against Lestat’s neck, kisses his jaw.
Louis’ eyes fall shut for a moment, warm and held and happy. Slumber takes him until Lestat stirs against him. He opens his eyes. Glint of silver, as Lestat takes out his cigarette étui. Lestat lights one between his lips, then offers another to Louis. He takes it and presses its tip against Lestat’s until it too glims in the dark.
“Let’s get cleaned up, chéri.”
Lestat helps him stand, then he is in Lestat’s arms and in the bathroom, dizzy and limbs loose, beginning to cool. The fragrant summer air slips in from the open window, and Louis takes a deep breath. Ozone mixing with flowers and human sweat and perfume. The storm has yet to come. Lestat gently sits him down on the porcelain bathtub with its golden ornate lion’s feet, and Louis sighs into the fading night. Lestat turns on the faucet. Rush of water.
Just then the door clicks and falls shut downstairs. Claudia.
“She’s been out too late,” Louis mumbles.
Lestat smiles benignly. “We can reprimand her at nightfall.” He strokes a finger alongside Louis’ jaw and kisses him gently. “Though she is young and wishes to see the world. Let her.”
Louis leans into Lestat. He is right. But worry for Claudia always needles at Louis’s consciousness, no matter that she is more ferocious than either of them, most days.
Arms wrap around Louis and unclasp the dress. Reality comes back to him and were he not so exhausted, all his blood spent and morning so nigh, Louis would blush and stammer and discard the dress. Instead, Lestat slides it from his shoulders with reverence, kissing the revealed skin like a devotee would his saint’s hands.
“You are beautiful,” Lestat says, kneeling between Louis’ legs, voice so sincere, Louis has to look away.
“If you like, I can wear it next time,” Lestat teases and a shiver runs down Louis’ back. “Though I’m afraid it will need some thorough cleaning.”
Louis turns to look at Lestat again and sees the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.
“You’re impossible,” Louis says with fondness.
“Yes,” Lestat answers, eager.
The hot steam of water drifts up behind Louis.
“Let's get in the tub quickly. Morning approaches.”
Louis slides in with Lestat, the heat so wonderful on his ever colder dead limbs, and then Lestat is holding him, their mouths finding each other, and they kiss slowly, and for a moment more Louis forgets that he is not alive.
Steps up the stairs. Then the groan of wood as Claudia enters her coffin room.
Louis sighs, relieved. Lestat kisses his cheek, then they both turn so their mouths meet again, slow and languid. Lestat grabs the wash cloth and gently drags it over their bodies until all filth and blood is washed away.
“Would you really wear it?” Louis asks quietly.
“Of course,” Lestat says, his lips against Louis’ ear. “With pleasure.”
With pleasure. Louis sighs and sinks against Lestat, lets himself go in a way he never imagined. His mamaw has never allowed it, nor has the mother of any household like his. Perhaps some mothers allow it in secret, that their sons may be as they are. But Louis? No Louis had never been allowed to be soft, not by his mamaw, or family, or the world around them. A black man could not be soft. Reverential, yes, meek and servile like a dog to the white man, yes, he had to, and what rage did it carry, but soft? No, he had to be strong, had to be in control, reins so tight he had not felt his own flesh until at last he’d drunk himself to the cusp of oblivion to loosen his fetters just barely. And never without consequence. The weeks of austere shame that followed such an evening had felt like the sunlight feels to him now. No, softness was a crime. But it is no longer. Not with Lestat. Not with Claudia. With them, he can finally start to put down his shackles. He can—breathe. He can wear a dress and not sink into hell. He can wear it and be loved.
He kisses Lestat.
“Let’s go to sleep,” Louis whispers. They dry each other with gentle touches, dressed only in their robes before Louis leads them to their coffin. They lay down arm in arm, hands finding each other.
And Louis can, in the quiet ways that he knows, return the love. Until morning swallows the stars. Until eternity.